Escape
by wyredsisters
Summary: My version of the events occurring in the kitchen the night that Myrtle dies. Little bit of angst, but not really. Very nice symbolism, if you ask me.


The pantry floor sparkled in the moonlight as Daisy Buchanan stared across the room. Her hand rested gently upon the light switch for a moment, but she thought better of it. Light would glare; light would shine; light would ruin her small fantasies that that night had never happened. Without light, she could hide in the shadows and pretend that she had not just taken the life of a woman.

Slowly, she glided across the room to the table and lowered herself into a wooden chair. She had been in the room enough to know where everything was, even the white vase holding two yellow roses that was placed in the middle of the table. She had picked them from Jay's garden and brought them inside, hoping that Tom wouldn't inquire.

Thinking of Jay's garden reminded her once again of what had occurred that night. _I killed a woman_. She tossed the words around in her head, trying to grasp the true meaning. Daisy went so far as to whisper them out loud, but she couldn't quite understand the significance buried beneath the syllables. They were just words to her.

A thick-bodied woman stepped into the room, purposefully. Though Daisy knew it was a cook, the dark shadows reminded Daisy of the woman who had been running toward them. The woman's arms were wildly waving about her head, begging for help. But it happened too fast. Daisy shut her eyes, remembering the jolt of the contact and the cracking noise she had heard. She shuddered, feeling cold for the first time that day.

The cook jumped after seeing Daisy's form on a chair. "Mrs. Buchanan?" she asked, confused.

"Ale," Daisy said sternly and suddenly. "And something to eat."

The cook quickly turned around and headed into the kitchen to fill the order, with only a brief, worried glance over her shoulder before the door shut again.

Daisy placed her elbows on the table and cradled her head in her hands. It just didn't seem real. She _couldn't_ have killed a person; these things didn't happen to people like her.

The door from the hallway was thrown open, sending a brutal, intense light upon her, interrupting her thoughts. Tom stood on the doorway, his large frame seeming more menacing than usual. He looked more distressed than she had ever seen him. He flipped the light switch, causing Daisy to wince at the brightness.

He strode heavily into the pantry and pulled out the chair across from Daisy. He sat down forcefully. "Myrtle's dead," he announced, his voice strong and steady.

Daisy's mouth opened a bit as she realized what had happened. She knew who Myrtle was, but she had never known anything else about her. Now she was dead. She was dead because Daisy killed her. A wave of pity hit her, followed by a wave of confusion.

The cook came in, holding a tray. In the light, Daisy could not see any resemblance to Myrtle. She placed a bottle of ale in front of both of them, and a plate of cold chicken in the middle of the table. Without a word, she bustled out of the room, as if afraid to be near them for a second longer.

"You wanted this?" Tom asked, motioning with his hands to the food placed before them.

"I did," Daisy murmured, afraid to meet his gaze. Instead she focused on the two yellow roses on the table. "I'm not hungry anymore."

As he looked across the table at a wife who wouldn't look back at him, Tom began to realize what had occurred earlier in the evening. He remembered Daisy's culpable expression at the discovery of the victim's identity. It all came together.

Tom looked around the room, his eyes trying to find something to focus on besides the guilty face of his wife. He noticed the old clock hung from the wall. It's green, bold numbers proclaimed that it was seven o'clock in the evening. "Our clock stopped," Tom declared, after glancing at his watch. "Whole damn house is falling apart."

Daisy looked up from her hands suddenly, an idea striking her. "You are absolutely right, Tom." She delicately placed her right hand on the table, leaning forward.

Tom understood. "And I am getting bored of this silly island." He placed his hand over hers, demonstrating a silent agreement.

"France's islands were much more beautiful," Daisy added, meeting his gaze now, all fear of discovery abandoned for fear of something much greater.

Tom's eyes glittered with the prospect of a new location. "We should go back to Europe. We can leave tomorrow, catch an early boat, and make it there in a week or two. I'll call ahead, rent a house in Bath, perhaps. Maybe we'll buy one in a month or so."

Daisy nodded, never being so happy as she was right now. She could leave it all behind, and never think of any of it again. Jay could be a memory, just as he used to be. Myrtle would slip into that forgotten part of the brain that was only used on rare occasions. Everything would go back to normal. "That sounds wonderful, Tom," Daisy breathed, feeling as if she might smile for the first time since she left the hotel room.

They discussed their visit to Europe until the early hours of the morning, when Tom decided it was time to retire. They both made their way up to the staircase, and went into their respective rooms. Daisy paused after she had closed the door behind her. Jay was still out there; she knew he was. He'd stand out there all night unless he was sure she was safe.

She went to the window. The light reflected off the glass, so the only she could see was herself. Her hair was messy and tangled from the drive back. Her eyes were bloodshot because of the late hour. Worst of all, the glass distorted her image, making it look like there was two of her, piled on top of each other. One face was layered on to another face, not quite evenly aligned. Daisy couldn't tell where one ended and the other one started. It just became a creature, a hideous, four-eyed creature.

Not being able to look anymore, she turned off the light, leaving only darkness. She got into bed that night, thinking only of escape.


End file.
